Lucy Graesser: A Long Distance Courtship for the Long-Term

If you ask Lucy Graesser what it was like to grow up under Communism, how she got to America, the cultural differences between the Ukraine and the United States, she may smile and say: “It is all in my book.  ”It’s not that Lucy doesn’t like questions or that she’s being rude or impatient.  The answers really are in her book, From America With Love, published in 2006.The problem is that the book is in Russian. Take the question about what it was like to grow up under Communism.  Some of us might be able to define “the Iron Curtain.”  Of course, we learned about it in history class.  But for Lucy Graesser (Lyudmilla G. Yavorskaya Graesser) who spent all her formative years under Communism until the break up of the USSR in 1991, it is still very real.“If you know nothing else, and you have learned about nothing else except that capitalism is evil and Americans are the enemy and the United States is the worst imperialist country in the world, it’s hard to know what is real and what is true.  It takes time to appreciate the truth,” she says adamantly.

That statement comes from someone who knows first hand about living in both worlds and says enthusiastically:  “I will take the United States any day!”

(Read the rest of this story in Winter ‘07 FACES)

Kenny Walker: From the Ghetto to the Gym

Fortunately, Kenny Walker doesn’t remember the first dramatic event of his life.  He was only six months old when his mother stormed into the Akron, Ohio hospital where he was staying, took a few solid punches at the nurse who was holding him in her arms, grabbed her son and ran for her life.  As Kenny tells it, she never looked back.This was 1956, and in those years—in that place—had Tommie Lee Walker been caught on her way out of that hospital, she would have likely been hanged for her crimes.“A black woman beating up a white woman at that time would have never seen the light of day again,” Kenny believes.Kenny’s account of this spectacular display of maternal ferocity represents a radical shift from the lighthearted banter and “smack talk” of a personal trainer and his two unsuspecting and vulnerable trainees.A couple of months ago (having eliminated virtually all of the female trainers in town due to our stipulation that their waists not be smaller than our thighs), the Black Hills Faces Magazine staff of two bravely approached this talented man who, with over 30 years experience, is one of the most highly respected trainers in the Black Hills, asking him to whittle us back into pre-magazine shape.  Little did we know he would kick our proverbial backsides while sharing a life story that is as convoluted as it is fascinating.We certainly don’t want to minimize the healthful benefits of this training experience with Kenny—he’s a former Mr. South Dakota and Mr. Universe runner up for crying out loud.  And a lot of blood, sweat and tears as well as an impressive collective number of inches and pounds have melted onto the squeaky clean floor of the Weight Room in downtown Rapid City over the past sixty days—at our expense.  Had it been a little less painful, we’d be a bit more grateful.       

But let’s face it; a couple of middle aged biddies pumping iron is not nearly as interesting as the story of the boy who went from the streets of Chicago, to Sky Ranch in northwestern South Dakota, to regional, national and international power lifting competitions—finally landing contentedly in the Black Hills.

(Read the rest of this story in Winter ‘06 FACES)

Jean Wise: Gone to the Dogs…and loving it

It’s a bit like riding in Santa’s sleigh.This is what pops into my mind after climbing behind Jean Wise on her four-wheeler and taking a fast and furious ride around “the patch”—which on this frosty early-November Monday morning, happens to be the Pactola-area neighborhood near Jean’s home.Funny thing is, the four wheeler is not even turned on, and we’re traveling at speeds of at least five miles per hour.  And instead of Dasher, Dancer, Prancer and all those reindeer boys, we’re led by “the girls,” whose names range from the common to the exotic: Alice, Cheyenne, Danke, Jerry, Mickey, Potter, Sassy, Shilelagh, Tak and Teton.This is Black Hills dog sledding at its finest—and there’s not even any snow. As it happens, this early morning ride is a bit of a memorial trek, in honor of the “big bear,” the King, the dog who started it all for the Bowman, N.D. native and operating-room nurse who built a house in the woods and decided to make mushing her passion.“Bandit was my best friend,” Jean says, wiping tears from her eyes.  “He was my first dog.  It all started with him.”The pain is still fresh.  Two days earlier Jean and the dogs had gone out for their daily run with Bandit flanking the team.  “He was the leader of the pack even when he wasn’t hooked up to the sled,” Jean says.  The husky must have caught the scent of something and veered off after it, Jean speculates, for when they returned home, he was nowhere to be found.But dogs have a way of finding their way home again, so Jean wasn’t initially concerned.  She became worried, however, when he wasn’t home by nightfall—or by that next morning when she had to get up early and go to work.  She found him when she returned that evening, near the doorstep of his home, and near-death.“We had to put him down,” Jeans says, grief written all over her face.  Having buried my share of beloved dogs during my childhood, I am quick to suggest that I come back another day for my dog sled ride.  It seems appropriate to let Jean have some time to mourn her favorite dog.But it’s clear that Jean’s grief therapy is behind the fence we’re standing in front of—in the form of ten wet noses, whose owners, displaying uncharacteristic calm, are mourning too, but who seem to intuitively understand that what their master needs most is to get right back on the trail.

(Read the rest of this story in Winter ‘07 FACES)

James Van Nuys Paints Black Hills Skies

  With one final brush stroke, Black Hills artist James Van Nuys declares the painting a success.We’re standing in his studio, which on this unseasonably warm mid-November day, happens to be on a high bluff in the Buffalo Gap National Grassland south of New Underwood.  The object of his aesthetic affection is the Black Hills horizon, as it crescendos toward crown jewel Harney Peak.  His craft is plein air painting, which challenges artists to spontaneously create under notoriously fickle skies.

Two hours ago he set up his easel, squeezed tubes of paint onto a palette, and paused a moment before a blank canvas.  Among the many highlights of the day, I am treated to the fascinating transformation that truly great artists undergo as they prepare to give way to the muse.  In James’ case, it is a slight narrowing of the eyes, a lift of the chin and a countenance that is paradoxically both focused and distracted.  It is a staccato darting of steely blue eyes from canvas to horizon and back again, animating the chiseled features of his handsome face in ways he is totally unaware of.

Watching this deft leftie juggle two (sometimes three) brushes, as he dabs and swishes to get just the right color, is visual poetry.  James calls it “shades of gray,” combining a color with its complement to achieve subtler hues.  Whatever it is, it looks a bit like magic.Polite to a fault, James can paint with total concentration yet still make me feel more like invited guest than imposing trespasser.  “See the diagonal lines in the clouds?” he wonders aloud, thoughtfully trying to draw me into his private world.  He wisps a cloud, then gestures with his brush.  “And that stripe of yellow light in the foothills?  I want to capture that.”He wants to capture that.  And of course, he does.It is this single-minded fortitude—combined with God-given talent and a lot of hard work—that has allowed this gifted artist to create Black Hills and prairie landscape masterpieces for over twenty years.

But there’s more.  He does the same thing with bronze, music—and with the written word.  In fact, I am quite sure I could ask James to sculpt in the vein of Michelangelo, craft a painting in the style of fellow Dutchmen Van Gogh or Rembrandt; write a novella in the style of Charles Dickens or Jane Austen; pen a Shakespearean sonnet; or compose a Baroque fugue—and while he might call it one of his “Quixotic endeavors,” the self described “over-attempter” would probably step up to the plate and get it done.

For more information about James’ artwork and music, visit his website, www.jamesvannuys.com.

     (Read the rest of this story in Winter ‘07 FACES)

Edith Weber Runs for her Life

  Marathons are a spectator’s sport for about five hours. The crowd waiting at the finish line begins to thin out after that. The majority of runners have crossed the finish line, and race organizers start calling it a day.  If you’re Edith Weber, your day isn’t over yet. You still have a few miles to go. But you’ve learned not to expect people to stick around to watch you finish.  That this 76-year-old Piedmont woman would attempt such a feat is enough to defy most people’s expectations. Little old ladies, after all, don’t run 26.2 miles.

They join quilting guilds, put around their garden and dot on their grandchildren.  Grandma E Dee does all that. When she isn’t running.  It may take her longer to cross the finish line. The number of spectators milling around at the finish line may have dwindled by the time she arrives. But Edith isn’t out to shatter any records. She’s out to shatter assumptions about what little old ladies can do when they’re not quilting, gardening or spoiling the grandkids.  Running wasn’t always a priority.  Edith didn’t try it until the last of her children graduated from high school.  She was 53.

The Marion High School graduate thought about running when she was younger, but “they didn’t have these things when I went to school.”  Her children had them, however, and ran cross country and track while their proud parents looked on.  As tempting as it was, Edith held off on running because she didn’t want to steal the kids’ thunder.  It was their time. Not hers.  So, as Edith puts it, “I went and hollered at them.”  Today they return the favor and holler at her.

(Read the rest of this story in Winter ‘07 FACES)

Dr. Larry Agenbroad: Them Bones are Gonna Rise Again

  On a cold, stormy day in October of 1971, a professor and his group of college students were on their way to explore a bed of bones discovered more than seven years earlier by Albert Meng, a Crawford, NE rancher.  Meng had uncovered the bones while excavating a watering pond for his cattle in 1954.  He was convinced that his discovery was important, but he couldn’t find anyone who agreed with him — certainly not anyone with the academic and scientific background to appreciate the discovery.  “Without looking at the bones,” the rancher said, “people I asked about it concluded it was not worth their time.  They probably just a bunch of sheep bones.”

In 1968, it was Dr. Larry Agenbroad, archeologist, geologist, anthropologist, hydrologist and geo-physicist, who was the one to affirm Meng’s conviction that the site was worth exploring. “If those are sheep, they’re the biggest sheep I’ve ever seen!” Agenbroad said.

After three years of paperwork and planning, Agenbroad, head of Chadron (NE) State University’s earth sciences department, launched an official excavation with a crew of students from the college.  “The bunch of bones” would become known as The Hudson Meng Bison Kill Site, north of Crawford, NE.

The bones were from bison, somewhat larger than any that were now roaming the prairies. Intermixed with the bones were spear points associated with the Alberta culture, first identified in Alberta, Canada. Radiocarbon dating demonstrated the site to be 9820 years old and gave the first dating of any Alberta site.

 

(Read the rest of this story in Winter ’07 FACES)

Dave Oyler: Boys to Men

   If you plan on sitting down for a chat with Dave Oyler about his 40-year tenure at the Rapid City Club for Boys, don’t forget your box of Kleenex.  I defy even the most hard-hearted of souls to spend even a half-hour with Dave, listening to him talk about “his boys,” without shedding a tear or two.Dave doesn’t mean to make you snivel like an emotional fool.  It’s just that he’s the kind of rare individual whose passion for his profession has absolutely not dimmed over more than four decades of doing the same thing, with the same people, at the same place, day in and day out.  It’s the light in his eyes, the grin on his face, and the enthusiasm in his voice.  Where others become jaded and disenchanted with the monotony of a lifelong career, Dave—who supposedly retired last year—can’t seem to stay away.“After 40 years, I still have tremendous passion, incredible awe of this place that, believe it or not, has changed very little through the years,” Dave insists.It was 1965 when a shy and somewhat introverted 15-year-old Boy Scout wandered into a Friday “buddy night” at the Boy’s Club at Sixth and St. Louis in downtown Rapid City.  Just shy of his eagle rank, he wasn’t looking for something else to join.  But when he walked into the gym full of 400 boisterous boys, Dave was drawn in like a magnet.“I was totally amazed at the number of kids.  The diversity.  Everybody was having a ball, the time of their lives, and it was irresistible,” he recalls.Irresistible is an appropriate word to describe what Dave saw that first night.  He couldn’t stay away.  He attended the next new members meeting and joined immediately.  His “member” rank was destined to be relatively short, however, for it was clear from the beginning that this young teenager was more of a leader than a follower.

“A few months later, they offered me a job.  That first job lasted one day,” Dave says, with a chuckle.  The job was coat checker, at 75 cents an hour.  The pay was fine for the times, Dave says, but when he lost one of the coat tags, it was a mistake that would cost him $10.  “I was pretty much in the hole before I started,” he jokes.

(Read the rest of this story in Winter ‘07 FACES)